


Mo' to love

by PlainJane



Series: John Watson's way [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Marriage, moustache porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more than one way to keep a genius guessing...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Three

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the AO3 Fanfiction Auction, as a commission for Jan in Fresno! Inspired by the photo that led to the cover (minor spoilers for S3). Thanks, Jan, for helping me help OTW and AO3 :D

“What is that?”

John looked up from his breakfast. “What is what?”

“That.”

“What?” John repeated. His expression was open and guileless, but his eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Oh, we’re playing at being obtuse this morning. How delightful,” Sherlock grimaced into his coffee mug as he lifted it to take a sip.

“Ask me nicely,” John said softly. He crunched into another bite of toast and jam with a grin.

Sherlock glared at him.

“Oi! It’s not my fault you decided to stay at the Yard for three straight days. If you’re out of sorts, blame Greg.”

“I’m not ‘out of sorts,’” Sherlock replied sharply. “I am…concerned.”

“Concerned.”

“About _that_ ,” Sherlock repeated, gesturing toward John’s upper lip. “The thing on your face.”

“Oh, _this_.” John smirked, stroking the spot he had neglected to shave in his husband’s absence. “I think it’s starting to come in quite nicely.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Much too soon to tell.”

“No it isn’t. I don’t like it.”

“Give it some time. At least until it’s actually filled in.” John stood and picked up his plate and empty mug before bending to drop a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head.

He turned to carry his dishes into the kitchen.

“You never know,” he called back over his shoulder at the cranky detective. “You might like me with a moustache.”


	2. Day 10

“Sherlock?” John stepped into the sitting room from the landing, his jacket in his hand. “Come on, get your coat. We’re meeting Molly and Greg and little Isabella for brunch this morning.”

“No.”

“Yes.” John stepped over to the sofa, prodding his husband’s back with his knee. “Come on. You agreed to this yesterday.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Sherlock rolled over and fixed John with a steely glare. “Why wouldn’t I want to waste my Saturday morning in a crowded café chit-chatting with two people I see regularly anyway because I work with them, while being interrupted repeatedly by a squalling infant?”

The two men stared at one another for a long moment. Finally, John wedged his bottom onto the sofa near Sherlock’s hip.

“All right, tell me. I know that isn’t the reason. We’ve firmly established that you do, in fact, like Molly and Greg. And you can’t tell me you don’t love that baby. I’ve seen the way you smile at her when you think we’re not looking.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Sherlock.”

“I am not going anywhere with you while you have that thing on your face.”

“Oh for — are you still on about that?”

Sherlock sat up. “Why, John? Why do you have to grow a moustache. It’s so…”

“So…what?”

Sherlock frowned. “So _dull_.”

“Yes, well, so am I. A bit.”

“You most certainly are not!”

“A bit,” John repeated. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock reached up dramatically to scratch at the spot. John smiled fondly at his husband as he stood, tugging at the taller man’s hand.

“Come on. I’ll get your coat. You can pout on the way.”

The cab trip was quiet, but of course John was used to that. He watched the city go by, happy to rest his hand on Sherlock’s knee, patting it occasionally.

Molly and Greg were waiting outside the café in St. James’s Park. Isabella was in her pushchair, bundled against the late autumn wind in a fluffy purple anorak.

“Morning,” Greg called cheerfully.

John shook the man’s hand before planting a kiss on Molly’s cheek. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Oh, not very. Sherlock, were you dawdling?” Molly teased.

Sherlock’s lips twitched and his gaze was almost baleful, but John was pleased that the man refrained from offering a scathing reply.

“I see it’s still coming along,” Greg remarked, pinching his thumb and forefinger over his own top lip  as he grinned at John.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” John smoothed the developing facial hair with a nod. “I think it’ll be nice.”

“You’ll be very dashing with a moustache,” Molly agreed. “Won’t he, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And what do you think, Izzie?” John crouched down in front of the pushchair. He chucked the gurgling, brown-eyed baby under her double chin before pulling her out and up into his arms. Isabella Hooper-Lestrade cooed her approval and slapped a hand against his cheek then attempted to prod at the fuzzy patch underneath his nose with a chubby finger. “What do you say, princess? Shall we keep it?”

He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he asked, not even remotely surprised when the detective grumbled, “Oh, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock pulled the baby gently from John’s grasp and tucked her in firmly against his own chest. John marvelled as his husband cradled the back of the little girl’s head and pressed his lips to her brow. Isabella responded with a shriek of pleasure.

As Sherlock regarded her, John realized that the man he loved was most likely unaware of the softness that entered his eyes as he did so. It was a vulnerable expression with which John alone was familiar.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, John Watson. Using a child to try and justify your own highly questionable choices.” Sherlock turned his back on the rest of the party and began whispering to the baby as he entered the restaurant.

Greg, Molly and John were very nearly helpless with laughter as they followed him.


	3. Day 15

“Mmmscratchy.”

“Sorry?” John pulled away from Sherlock, trying to look innocent.

Sherlock had been avoiding his kisses for some days now. John had waited until they were getting into the cab, hoping to catch his husband unawares. And it had worked, at least for a while.

“The…thing. It’s scratching my face.”

“My love, we’ve both had a bit of stubble rash before,” John began reasonably. “And, for god’s sake, it isn’t as though neither of us has pubic hair.”

John stopped abruptly, pursing his lips and casting a self-conscious glance at their driver. He caught the woman’s eye in the rear-view mirror and flushed a little. He shook his head, trying to ignore Sherlock’s amusement at his expense.

“Anyway, my moustache is _much_ softer than that, now it’s a bit longer.”

Sherlock’s half-smirk disappeared. “This is different.”

“Why?”

“It just is. I don’t like it!”

“Why?” John studied Sherlock’s bottom lip, rubbing it with his thumb.

“It isn’t how you are supposed to feel when I kiss you.”

“How am I supposed to feel?”

“John…”

“221 Baker Street,” the cabbie called over her shoulder.

“Oh look, we’re home.”

“Sherlock!”


	4. Day 19

“Sherlock? Are you there?”

“Yes. I see you.” He reappeared on John’s monitor, angling his laptop up a bit so John could see his face. Sherlock had dispensed with his suit jacket; he’d untucked his shirt and rolled up the sleeves.

“How is Frankfurt?”

“Cold.”

“Sorry, my love. November in Germany for you. How’s the case?”

“I’ve come across something I believe could wrap up the case here, though it does lead to a bigger conspiracy.”

“Right. So, uhm, will you be able to do the conspiracy from here?”

“Miss me?”

“Course I do. Berk.” John smiled at him. “In fact…” He was lying on his side on their bed, head propped up on one elbow. He turned his laptop slightly; just enough for Sherlock to see…

“Well, well. That looks promising.”

John traced his fingers over his naked erection. He had come to this particular party sans clothing for very good reason. “Mmmm. Very promising. Care to reciprocate?”

“Since you’ve asked…” Sherlock disappeared from the screen for a moment. He returned a few minutes later wearing nothing but a cheeky grin. He sat on the end of his hotel bed across from the desk or bureau where he must have set his computer. “Now, then. Where shall we start?”

“You choose,” John sighed. He rolled onto his back, teasing his thumb against his fraenulum.

“Fine. I want to watch you come first. Nipples, then I want you to finger yourself.“

“Okay,” John replied happily, moving one hand to his chest. He pinched and rolled the taught bead in his fingers, moaning a little. He imagined one of Sherlock’s long-fingered hands there, the violinist’s dexterity playing over his sensitive flesh. It was good, but not quite…

John turned back to the laptop. “Love? I need to hear you. Will you talk to me?”

Without missing a beat, Sherlock’s deep voice cut through John’s consciousness. “Just like that, my dear. That’s it. Pull and squeeze — I know how good that makes you feel. I only wish I were there to suck on them for you. I would circle them with my tongue first and then tug with my teeth…” 

John groaned, his hand on his cock speeding up slightly. He moved his hand to the other nipple.

“You are so beautiful like this. Stretched out for me and letting me watch. Just look at you — so golden and warm. Do you know how much I love the way you feel, the way you smell? I crave it sometimes: just to have you, some part of you, pressed against me so I can touch you and breathe you in.”

“Fuck, Sherlock. Your voice. Jes —”

“Ah! I see that look on your face — that felt lovely, didn’t it? Try that again. Oh, yes. Yes, that’s very nice. You…oh, already?”

“Yes,” John croaked. He reached with a shaking hand for the bottle of lube he’d laid close by. His fingers wet, he rolled back to his side and slid them between his arse cheeks. He massaged for a moment and then eased one digit inside his passage.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock rasped. “I may not last watching you like this. Yes, press in. Deeper. _Deeper_. Again. And again. I wish I were there. I love the way you feel around my fingers. The way you clench around me and hold me inside you. Can you add another finger yet? Oh, listen to you moaning. Does it burn a little, like it does when I push in for the first time? That is so gorgeous. I’m leaking, too. Oh, god, yes. More. Can you find your spot at that angle, my dear? Can you — oh, yes, yes you can. Did that feel nice? As nice as when I rub you there? You are so…so…”

There was a long pause. John glanced at the laptop to find Sherlock slack-jawed and staring intently at the screen. He could not see his husband’s arousal, but could see his hand moving in time with John’s own. John moaned as he considered the unbelievably wanton picture they must make. He could feel his balls beginning to draw up.

“That’s right. And slide your finger over the slit to catch that dribble. Mmm…oh, fuck, John. Oh, god, are you going to come? Are you coming? Oh, god, yes…”

“OH GOD! Sherlock, I love you. Love you so much. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck…” John shouted as he came all over the towel he’d laid over the bed ahead of time. He pressed his fingers as far as he could inside his arse as he rode out his orgasm.

Everything went a bit hazy. John could still hear Sherlock’s laboured breathing above the sound of his own heart rate as it gradually slowed. When he finally returned to himself, he looked back to the computer to see Sherlock stretched out on his own hotel bed, legs spread and glistening red cock in his hand.

“Oh, love, you are a sight,” he groaned. “Are you close? I didn’t plan for this to be over so soon, but you get me so…god, that is so fucking hot. I can see your sweet pucker. So pink, just waiting for my tongue—”

“NO!” Sherlock shouted. His head came up off the bed and he looked up at the screen once more. “John…no-no rimming. No kissing.”

“What? Why?” John watched his lover’s face for a moment. “Oh. Really? You don’t even want to hear about it?”

“No. It will make me feel…scratchy. Just, please — tell me how you would fuck me. Please.”

John bit down hard on the giggle that threatened. He schooled his features as Sherlock lay back down, thrusting into his own fist.

“All right, my finicky sweetheart. Let me tell me how I would bury my cock inside you…”


	5. Day 25

“Get rid of it.”

“Pardon?” John turned from the mirror, the electric razor hovering over his cheek.

Sherlock tilted his chin up and crossed his arms. He stayed where he was, filling the doorway to the bathroom.

John was bare-chested before the mirror, a towel wrapped around his hips, trying to finish getting ready for a shift at the hospital.

“You heard me.”

John held his husband’s gaze steadily, his nose twitching. “Can’t help, love. Sorry.”

Sherlock’s mouth came open — oh, but John had a very good idea what he wanted to say — then snapped shut once more.

Sherlock stomped into the kitchen without another word.


	6. Day 36

“Sherlock!! What the _hell_ are you doing?”

John sat up abruptly, jostling the man who was straddling his lap and leaning over him with a straight razor in his hand.

“Jesus! Have you lost your mind? You scared the life out of me — I was sound asleep! What are you playing at?” John leaned against their headboard and stretched his legs out on the bed beneath his husband’s bum. “Were you…were you going to _shave_ me?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “This would have been much simpler if you hadn’t woken.”

“And you were going to do it with that?” John sounded more horrified than he was. “Sherlock, do you even know how to use a straight razor?”

“Of course I do!” Sherlock flopped onto the bed on his back. “Honestly, John.”

“You can’t blame me for being a little worried. That was quite a sight to wake up to.”

“You are over-reacting.”

“ _I’m_ over-reacting? You were going to shear me in my sleep with a potential murder weapon, all because you don’t like my moustache, and _I’m_ over-reacting?”

“Yes. You are.” Sherlock snapped. He rolled onto his side with a grunt of indignation.

John relaxed a little. He watched with perverse pleasure as Sherlock sulked himself to sleep. He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying it this much, but he was.

He slid down on the bed and spooned up against his husband’s back.


	7. Day 42

After a couple of weeks spent chasing down the network of smugglers Sherlock had uncovered during the case in Frankfurt, John was more than ready for date night. Skype sex was fine, but never entirely satisfying, and Sherlock had been far too distracted by the case since for anything other than one mutual wank in the shower.

Or so he claimed.

They sat down on the sofa together on Thursday evening, with supper from Thai Palace and a Doctor Who Christmas special. But almost as soon as the familiar theme music started, John felt long fingers stroking him through his trousers.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“Keep that up and date night will be much shorter than usual.”

“Problem?”

“Oh, not from my end,” John assured him. He set his noodles down and shifted closer to his husband, who was seated quite stiffly beside him.

“Nor from mine,” Sherlock agreed, not turning his attention from the telly.

“Well then?”

“Just as soon as you’ve shaved.”

John stared at the side of his head. “You’re not serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Sherlock rumbled. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“I am not shaving my moustache just so you’ll have sex with me.”

“Well, then I hope you and your hand will be very happy together.” Sherlock removed his own fingers from John’s crotch.

John sighed, dropping his head back against the sofa. “Why don’t you like it?”

“It changes your face.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I _like_ your face the way it is,” Sherlock growled.

“But change can be good, right?”

“No.”

“Sherlock…”

“Why do you need it, John? Why?” Sherlock jumped up, clearly agitated now. “What purpose does it serve? You are not an overly vain man, so this is not just about aesthetics. Your upper lip is, in fact, perfect as it is. You do not have any scars or other unsightly marks to hide. And you would not be mistaken for a much younger man —”

“Hey!”

“So this is not about trying to exude maturity. It is not part of a uniform. We do not need it for a case. Are you raising money for charity? Have you lost a bet? Are you being blackmailed? Is this the side‑effect from some medication you’ve recently begun taking?”

John pursed his lips, trying very hard not to snigger. “Been giving this some thought, have you?”

Sherlock turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. He threw his hands in the air in a gesture of pure exasperation. “Of COURSE I have, you idiot! How could I not? My husband has — for reasons that completely elude me — decided to grow facial hair in SPITE of the fact that I have made it clear that I. DON’T. LIKE IT!”

John stood slowly and stepped in close to Sherlock. He ran an appreciative hand over the taller man’s chest. “I’m sorry you’re upset,” he said softly.

Sherlock huffed as John slowly circled him. John let his fingers drag over Sherlock’s waist. He came to a stop and pressed his body up against Sherlock’s back, his arm wrapping about his husband’s middle and his hand making small circles over the flat planes of Sherlock’s abdomen.

John dropped his forehead to the spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and began to tug the fitted charcoal button-down shirt from the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. “I’ve missed you.”

“I was only gone three days. I’ve been back for ages.”

“You know what I meant,” John murmured. He slid both hands under the now-loosened shirt and trailed his fingers up over the lean muscle. He captured both nipples between thumbs and fingers and began to rub.

“D-don’t.”

“That wasn’t very convincing,” John chuckled. “Do you really want me to stop?”

“Ye-n—oh!”

“Didn’t think so.” John pinched and tugged at Sherlock’s nipples until the man was wriggling against him. John tucked his own aching erection up against Sherlock’s thigh and set to work on the snug, expensive trousers. “It’s been too long, love.”

Sherlock clasped one hand over John’s where it continued to tease his nipple. With the other he held his shirt up and out of the way as John undid his button and zip. That done, John used both hands to tug the clothing down over his husband’s lean hips.

When pants and trousers were down, and Sherlock had gracefully stepped out of them, John cupped his scrotum with one hand and grasped his already engorged length with the other.

“John…” Sherlock hissed.

“Good, love. Just relax. Let me.”

John stroked him firmly; thumbing Sherlock’s glans as he rolled his balls in his other palm.

Sherlock began to thrust into his touch. “More. Please, more.”

“Of course, my love.” John began twisting over the head of Sherlock’s cock on every upstroke. After long minutes of a lazy rhythm, he released Sherlock’s balls in favour of applying pressure to his perineum.

“Oh, god, John. I want…I want…”

“Will you fuck me?” John purred against his back.

“Yes! God, yes.” Sherlock turned abruptly and grasped John’s biceps. He was only centimetres from his   husband’s face when he hesitated.

“Kiss me, love,” John whispered. “I want to…”

“No. I-I can’t.”

“Sherlock, just…I want to show —”

“I want you on the floor, in front of the sofa.”

John started to protest, but by then Sherlock had begun stripping him of his trousers and pants. John reached into his own pocket quickly, while he still could, for the packet of lube he’d optimistically stashed there. He pressed it into his husband’s hand. 

When his clothes lay puddled on the floor at his feet, Sherlock crowded in close. John could feel his warm breath on his neck, in his ear. Sherlock wrapped a hand around his cock and began to caress. John shivered with need — it had been too bloody long.

“I want you so badly, John,” Sherlock rasped. “I need you.”

“I know, love. Me —” John gasped as Sherlock teased his slit. “Me too.”

“Now, John. Please.”

John nodded dumbly, moving as soon as Sherlock released him to shuffle forward. He dropped to his knees and leaned on the sofa seat cushion, arse in the air. He dropped his head to rest on his folded arms, face turned to the side.

Sherlock wasted no time in positioning himself on his knees behind his lover, fingers already slicked.

“Ready, my dear?”

John nodded again, eyes fluttering closed. Sherlock traced wet fingertips through his cleft, circling for a moment before easing one finger through the tight pucker.

John shuddered. “Good. So good.”

Sherlock stroked his back underneath his shirt as he fingered him. “You are so tight and so hot. I can’t wait to fill you up.”

John released a ragged breath as Sherlock added a second finger. By the time he got to three, John was backing into his hand and panting his name.

“Now, love! Oh, christ!”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He removed his fingers and eased forward. “I’m right there,” he whispered. “Can you feel me?” He rubbed the head of his cock lightly over John’s loosened hole.

“Fuck, Sherlock. In me, now!”

Sherlock pushed in slowly. John enjoyed the wonderful sensation of his body drawing him in. When Sherlock was fully sheathed, he rested his head against John’s back for a moment. “Oh, my dear. You feel so good.”

John grunted and rotated his hips. “Move.”

Sherlock obliged, withdrawing gradually and then pushing in once more. He repeated the action several times, moaning John’s name. Suddenly he froze. “John? I-I do apologize, but I don’t think I’m going to last very long. I’ve been so…”

“Me, too,” John admitted softly. “Don’t stop, love. Please.”

Sherlock caressed John’s torso as he began to slap against his bottom. It was erratic and sloppy but neither of them cared. Sherlock reached around and took him in hand. “Come with me, then. We need this.” He began to fondle John’s throbbing prick.

John rocked into Sherlock’s movements with soft, broken noises. “Oh, god, oh, god…”

“My John. Mine.”

“So good, love,” John panted. “So good. Oh, fuck, Sherlock…”

John’s back arched as he began to shoot all over Sherlock’s hand and the floor. He shouted his lover’s name as he bucked into Sherlock’s wild thrusts.

“Yes. Yes, love — oh, fuck yes,” John moaned as Sherlock slammed into him one last time and came. John could feel the warmth washing his insides and his knees began to buckle. Sherlock had wrapped both gangly arms around John’s body and all but collapsed onto his back.

“Can’t…can’t stay…up.”

Sherlock grumbled an incoherent objection, but was too limp to resist John’s efforts to slide them to the floor. They rested there, panting and weak.

At length, John reached for Sherlock’s hand, intent on bringing it to his lips.

“John, don’t!” Sherlock snatched his hand back and moved away. He withdrew and put some distance between them.

John rolled over, smiling. “But there’s something I want to tell you. Or rather show you. Will you let me kiss you? Please.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I just…I can’t. It’s too unpleasant.” He sat up.

“But, love…” John hesitated at his husband’s expression. “You are being so stubborn about this. You’ve just made your mind up and you don’t even want to know —”

“Enough. If you would just shave the bloody thing off, we could get on with our lives. I do not wish to discuss it further.”

Sherlock stood and stomped to the loo, slamming the door behind him.

John sighed heavily as he heard the bath begin to run.


	8. Day 43 – 2 a.m.

“Why?”

John started awake at the question reverberating against his left ear. He rolled slightly, which was more difficult than it should have been as Sherlock had finally joined him in their bed and was now lying half on top of him, holding him very tightly. The detective’s chin was resting on John’s shoulder.

“Sher — what…” John groaned, attempting to focus on his alarm clock. “What time is it?”

“Irrelevant,” his husband replied, the silky baritone sending pleasant tingles through John’s sleepdrugged body. “It has been six weeks. Why have you grown a moustache?”

John hummed happily, closing his eyes. “You really haven’t worked it out?”

There was a long pause. John could almost hear the Mind Palace doors opening and closing. He dozed while he waited for Sherlock to think it through once more. John pulled the arm over his midsection a little tighter.

“No,” Sherlock admitted finally. “I don’t know. Is it…John, is it for someone else?”

John smiled to himself as he shifted so he could turn in his lover’s arms. When he was facing Sherlock, their heads on one pillow, John pulled one of his hands to his lips. John kissed his husband’s fingers, slowly and deliberately rubbing his moustache over the knuckles as he did. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth fell into a very alluring “O” as the small patch of hair tickled and teased over his skin.

“Everything — and I mean everything — I do is for you. Or about you. Or because of you,” John murmured. “I adore you, you silly man. And I’ve just had you shag me senseless after spending weeks gagging for your cock. I need you, in every way, and I always will. There could never be anyone else.”

John continued to nuzzle at Sherlock’s fingers before turning the hand so he could apply the same treatment to the inside of his wrist: sweep, nip, suck, brush, lick, kiss.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice was breathy and a little tremulous. “But I thought…I said I didn’t like your moustache, and you kept it —” The man swallowed. “Anyway.”

John continued up the length of his lover’s arm, sweeping his whiskers over the surface of Sherlock’s pale flesh and trailing behind with his tongue. “You said you didn’t like it, but then you didn’t know about this, did you?”

“Why?” Sherlock panted. “Why not show me sooner?”

“You were so tetchy about the ‘scratchiness’ when it was growing in. Wanted to wait until it was nice and bushy and soft,” John whispered. “I did try earlier…”

“Sorry.”

“So am I, love. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” John swept his moustache repeatedly over the inside of Sherlock’s elbow then sucked at the very thin skin.

Sherlock licked his lips, shaking his head once. “Th-that’s very good.”

Sherlock had become pliant; John took the opportunity to roll him over onto his back. He sprawled over him and continued his path. He pushed the long arm up, caressing every inch of the bicep and tricep muscles before eventually burying his face in Sherlock’s armpit. John felt him jump — this was not something they had ever really done before.

“John, what…?”

“Shhh,” John soothed.

He spent some time burrowing into the musky hollow and allowing his moustache to tangle in the hair there and skim over the sensitive flesh. He was gratified when Sherlock began to twitch beneath him.

“Ha — tickles…”

“Hmm. Lie still.”

John made his way over the top of Sherlock’s pectoral muscle before finally coming to one peaked nub. John bumped it first with his nose before beginning in earnest, brushing his moustache back and forth over his husband’s nipple. He was rewarded with Sherlock’s loud gasp.

“Does that feel nice?” John murmured, his breath warm on Sherlock’s chest. “I know yours are not as sensitive as mine, but —”

“Fuck!”

Long fingers dug into John’s hair, holding him in place. He obliged, alternating the moustache with his lips. His suckling noises were the only sounds in the room, save for Sherlock’s ragged breathing.

He scrubbed his facial hair across Sherlock’s chest, pausing occasionally to rub into and around the light dusting of hair there.

“Like this, do you?” he asked gruffly, repeating his attentions on the other nipple.

Sherlock moaned, bucking up into John’s body now, his prick rising to attention against John’s belly.

“Mmm, perhaps there is somewhere else I should apply myself,” John teased. He he slid his hand between them and cupped Sherlock’s cock. “Would you like that?”

“Ye-Jo-mmmmm…”

Sherlock’s eyes had long since rolled back in his head. John chuckled to himself as he made his way down his husband’s body.

He heard Sherlock’s gasp as he hovered over him. He licked the head once, twice, tasting the pre-come already there. He slid his open mouth over Sherlock’s length from tip to root. Once he’d reached the juncture with Sherlock’s balls, he took his cock in hand and held it firmly in place for…

“JOHN! Oh, god, oh, god...”

Sherlock’s hips arched off the bed as John dragged his moustache up and down over the tender flesh of his prick. John hummed a little as he burrowed into Sherlock’s sac, licking and sucking as he allowed the whiskers to do their work.

The long fingers tangled in John’s short hair became painful. Sherlock was leaking freely now, his cock twitching in John’s hand. He rubbed the facial hair along the shaft several more times before finally, finally sucking Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

“John, John, John, John, John, John…”

John sighed happily, applying himself to his task. He settled his own groin over Sherlock’s shin and began to grind himself to completion.

It did not take long before Sherlock was tugging at his hair in warning. John held the glans between his lips, flicking at Sherlock’s fraenulum with his tongue. With a long, painful groan, Sherlock released into his mouth.

John rubbed his own erection against Sherlock’s leg as he swallowed, beginning to feel his own body tighten in expectation. He let Sherlock’s prick slide from his mouth and quickly reached down to finish himself with several firm strokes.

“Sherlock! Love — oh, fuck, what you do to me…”

He collapsed on top of the taller man, drained. Sherlock caressed his scalp as he nuzzled, content, into his husband’s lean belly.

When his strength returned, John tilted his head so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Now do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded weakly.

“Something new, my love,” John whispered against his abdomen, knowing his moustache would be tickling Sherlock’s navel. “Something new for you to wonder about and puzzle over. And enjoy, in the end. Even when you were throwing a strop — it wasn’t boring, was it?”

“Boring?” Sherlock’s brow creased. “You’ve said that before. Why? John, you could never be boring to me.”

“Just making sure, love.” John dragged himself up and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, enjoying his shivers.”Maybe I just don’t want to bore myself.”

Sherlock pushed at him until he could see John’s face again. He pressed his lips together as he teased at John’s moustache thoughtfully. “It really is much softer than I thought it would be.”

“And?”

“And it is for me.”

John nodded, feeling a little sentimental as he gazed at the man he loved. “And?”

“And I suppose it is very…masculine.”

“Butch?” John teased.

“Mmm, yes. Sort of ‘Captain Watson.’”

“Ah, well, then. Perhaps I should keep it.”

“Perhaps.”


	9. Two months later

“Morning, love,” John yawned. He scratched his tummy through his sleep shirt on his way to the fresh coffee he could smell. He poured some of the steaming, dark goodness into the mug Sherlock had left on the counter for him. “What do you have on today, then?”

“Not much,” Sherlock answered from the sitting room. “Said I would pop in to Mycroft’s office and take a look at something for him.”

“Really? Well, that’s very magnanimous of you.” John turned slowly, pulling his chair out as he did. He was about to reach for the Weetabix box when he noticed there was already a bowl with two cereal biscuits on the table. The milk bottle was out as well. “Sherlock, have you made me breakfast?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That is almost sweet,” John replied. 

He rubbed absentmindedly at his newly naked upper lip. He was still getting used to it, having shaved his moustache only the day before. While he’d thoroughly enjoyed the little interlude in their sex life, he’d tired of the grooming in the end.

“Did you want anything or have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.”

John’s radar tweaked at that. “Sherlock, you didn’t eat yesterday while we were working in Swindon. You need to eat today.”

“Fine.”

John started toward the desk. “I mean it.”

“Hmmm.”

John stepped up behind Sherlock, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Love, are you listening to me?”

Sherlock swivelled very slowly.

“We’ve talked about the blood sugar thing — oh.”

“Yes?”

John cocked his head. After a moment, he ran his thumb over the darker-than-usual shadow now gracing the upper lip on his husband’s otherwise clean-shaven face. “Well.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “Well?”

John stared, fascinated by Sherlock with the beginnings of facial hair.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Problem?”

“Noooo,” John assured him. “ _Absolutely_ no.”

They shared a conspiratorial smile.

Sherlock stretched up to kiss him. John met him halfway, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and holding him fast. After a sound snogging, John released his husband with a fond look. He rubbed over the soon-to-be-‘stache once more.

“Come and eat your breakfast.”

“Yes, my dear.” Sherlock stood to follow John to the kitchen, still looking very pleased with himself. “Perhaps I should experiment with a beard as well,” he suggested.

“Now, let’s not get carried away.”


	10. Cover art

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my fantastic beta, Sher_locked_up (wearitcounts)!


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